


The Love of Flesh and Blood

by charleybradburies



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brotp, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Confessional Sex, Confessions, Cousin Incest, Cousins, Dry Humping, F/M, Family, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Forbidden Love, Future Fic, Guilt, House Stark, Incest, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Love, Love Confessions, Mild Smut, Not Canon Compliant, Not Prime Time, Older Arya, Older Sansa, Oral Sex, POV Sansa, R plus L equals J, Robb Lives, Sansa-centric, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Star-crossed, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She should not have looked at him and lusted after him, nor should he have done the same to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love of Flesh and Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).



Sansa spots Arya as she’s leaving her own chambers to join their brothers and subjects for dinner: sneaking into her room, messy as ever. Her hair hangs wildly over her shoulders - it is longer now than it's ever been - and looks like she'd had it tied back for the day, her boots are sheathed in mud, the nightdress she’d slept in the night before is shoved loosely into the top of her breeches and its strings in front of her breasts tied even more loosely, and the breeches are dirty about the knees. 

The smell of fire lingers in the corridor after she’s shut her door.

_Oh. Oh, Arya._

Sansa didn’t know what Arya had learned in Braavos, but discretion and subtlety must not have been among them, though apparently _some_ things had been. Sansa wishes she could hold it against her, her freedom to galavant around, practically as she always had before. Robb won’t push her into marriage, not after she’d almost broken the arm of the only lord who’d even agreed to come to Winterfell to see her. (He’d only tried to grab her hand, but Arya could not allow him even the respect of a calm verbal statement of disapproval. Robb had not asked any other lord since.) 

The King her brother could not even control the wild she-wolf, and here she was, feeding peasants and running off to the forge at will. 

And Sansa was stuck here, made to envy over that which her younger sister had. It wasn't that she disliked Winterfell or her siblings…but her heart was farther North, with a man she could never have, a man who’d sworn himself off of her, off their family. He was still a Stark somewhere in his heart, Sansa knew, though before loving him she’d thought Theon more a Stark than he. He was born to a Stark and raised in another’s labor of love for her; Father had worn the mark of infidelity in his sister’s place, had worn it before his own family. Sansa suspects that Mother had known - Mother must have known, she knew the look of love in his eyes, and how that was for her and her alone - but there was no way for Sansa to be certain. 

Jon had been raised as the son of Westeros’ noblest lord rather than as the son of a dead and disgraced prince, and Sansa despises herself for wondering whether being a Waters rather than a Snow might have made enough of a difference to keep him here. If he’d returned when they'd thought that Robb was dead, if he had loved her before, loved her like he had when he was here last, _wanted her,_ would he have perhaps chosen _them_ rather than the Watch and the Wall? She thinks of her siblings, who care for Jon as well, but in the greatest truth, she wants him to choose _her._

“Lady Stark?” comes a call from up the corridor - one of her handmaidens. “Are you well?”

**+**

“Our guest of honor is late,” Robb informs Sansa before she’s even managed to properly seat herself at his side. Arya arrives a moment or two later at most, sweat still beading her forehead, and Sansa only just barely refrains from smirking.

“How could that be?” she replies. Perhaps Robb was to be all business tonight - there have been dinners before when he’s quite nearly ignored the rest of them.

“He will have come quite far when he reaches us. Patience, sister.”

“Ah, patience,” Tyrion grins next to her and she startles, having not expected her husband to have joined her so soon in the meal. He often arrived many minutes late, book in hand. “Not a virtue in which I am most blessed. Shall _all_ of us have to employ that, Your Grace?” 

Robb claps a hand upon his shoulder to welcome him to the table; Sansa smiles, and starts to scoot away from Robb, as Tyrion’s role as Robb’s most intelligent and most trusted advisor gives him a place in all businesslike interactions, but Tyrion puts his hand on her arm to stop her.

“Tonight, you retain your seat as the King’s sister.”

“Our guest will be between us, Sansa,” Robb adds. It’s not a particularly common occurrence, but she has little reason to think much of it - most often that meant their guest was a jeweler or a dressmaker. 

Tonight is no such occurrence, she realizes well before she’s laid eyes on the man to join them at their table. An eerie howl, answered painfully loudly by Summer and Shaggydog both, reveals him to her. 

Half of her wishes to bolt from the table, and the other wants to retreat to the warm comfort of her chambers - whether she’d be joined or not feels of little consequence; her body bids her stay upon the bench for a short while. 

There is great reaction when Jon and Ghost and their accompaniment enter the Hall, more affectionate but less extensive than she might’ve expected had she had a moment to think on it; no, her thoughts were elsewhere directed. Much of her body _aches_ at the sight of him; his last visit was a moon whose light had sparked within her a sort of need she’d never properly known. She still doesn’t, she reminds herself, even though the assertion is futile. 

Arya and Rickon both bound out of their seats to greet him, and all three of their smiles - four, were she to count Jon’s Hand, Sam, who wasn’t even named a Hand - light the room; Ghost, Summer and Shaggydog waste no time before they fill the castle with their howls. 

As Jon makes his way closer to and around the head table, Sansa trembles, and notes that though the room glows in happiness, she is not a part. For her, there is only joy and lust and fear; she cannot safely or delicately convey any, but she manages a simple, shocked smile, hoping that appears appropriate enough. 

Robb stands to embrace their cousin shortly before he’s reached them, and Sansa draws herself up from the table as well, not expecting that when he and Robb leave each other’s arms, Jon’s next movements will be to progress further down the table and greet Bran and Tyrion before coming back to her. She chides herself for rising from her seat so eagerly, and here, too, before not only subjects but their - her - siblings, his cousins? She is not so open with her interests as Rickon, leaving the lipstick stain from a kiss in greeting from the Princess Shireen, nor the sort of closed lover that Arya increasingly seems to be becoming. 

Sansa worries about appearing as inconspicuous as she can - but Jon seems to have a different idea. He stands facing her for a proper moment of greeting, perhaps even giving her heart a chance to steady itself, before curling his arms around her waist. She responds in kind, raising her arms as she’s hugging him to have her palms atop and fingers slightly gripping the fur on Jon’s shoulders, to make this feel more real, to let this short moment they’d have together feel as long it could. He smells of Ghost, of sweat, of salt, of _Jon,_ and his hair, long as ever, dances against the crown of her head, and he grips her tighter.

She aches even more when one of his arms leaves her, but it finds another place at the top of her shoulders, and his fingers twine themselves in her hair, making her all the more wanting for a different context. They slip away from her sooner than she’d like, but his hands make the journey all the way to the small of her back and wind around her hips - _oh,_ the hold he could have on them when he chose to - before letting her go. 

He stays standing, talking cordially with Robb for a moment, but Sansa sits back down, and she can feel the slightest touch of his fingers remain against her back. It sends shivers up her spine and gooseflesh to her arms, and intensifies the aching where she wants him the most. 

After he and Robb trade a number of jests and are served wine, they take their seats, Jon slipping in between Robb and Sansa. It seems a tighter spot than usual, and upon investigation she finds it is - Tyrion has put himself a bit closer to her, off-center from Bran, whom he’s facing, and Jon’s leg meets hers, the lowermost ruffles of her dress rubbing against his smooth breeches.

He settles his hands in his lap, and she sets herself on ignoring them - there was no romance in her marriage, but Tyrion _was_ still next to her, and Robb next to Jon - but Jon doesn’t intend to allow her that little peace of mind, she finds as his right hand comes to lay on that same thigh, the very tips of its fingers just barely creeping over to Sansa’s own thigh. 

Her breath hitches. _Someone will notice._

That someone is her husband. Tyrion and Bran have a pause in their conversation as Tyrion turns toward her, asking, “are you quite alright, my lady?”

He doesn’t give her chance to answer before looking past her.

“And you, Lord Commander Snow, are _you_ comfortable?” 

It’s Robb who answers for Jon; “ _Comfortable?_ Tyrion, he’s actually smiling, this is quite a rare occasion,” he teases. 

“Yes, Your Grace, _curse_ that I am happy to have made my way home tonight,” Jon asserts. His tone bears some of the teasing that Robb’s had, but there is sincerity in his voice also. Robb and Tyrion appear less shocked at the designation of Winterfell than Sansa, but the rest of Jon’s right hand joins his fingertips atop her left thigh, giving a slight squeeze, and she realizes that perhaps he _wasn’t_ speaking of Winterfell.

**+**

His hands are rough, his kisses voracious, his cock hard, both of their breaths hot and ragged even when all that's happened is the door closing too loudly and Sansa's back being pressed against a wall in the guests' chambers that Robb's designated Jon's for his visit. She surprises herself with an aggression she's never channeled, and Jon surprises her with unexpected delicateness as he undoes the lacing on the back of her dress. 

The surprise fades quickly; soon Sansa's dress races down her legs to the floor, and she melts into Jon's arms as he wraps them around her and picks her up from the floor as easily as if she were a child. She locks her legs around his waist, somehow managing to keep them there when he deposits her on the edge of the bed and starts to undress himself, her ass almost slipping off the edge and his pelvis pressing against her cunt. Her arms aren't quite long enough to reach him from where she's laid, but she stretches as far as her thighs; they're slightly elevated because of her position and she's able to put her palms against her knees, which looks to her like she's entreating him to hurry - and she is, but he doesn't oblige her entirely. 

He shrugs off his furs and his shirt, and she can hear Jon's boots smacking against the floor when he kicks them off, but when he lifts her up with a single hand against her back, scoots her closer to the center of the bed, and climbs above her, his breeches are still tied. 

He'd slipped his arms between hers and her body, so Sansa does not have the leverage to untie them herself, but _Seven Hells,_ by the time he presses his body fully down on top of hers, she's already felt herself dripping onto the bed; he moves against her, and while she couldn't call most of his movements gentle, it's _simply_ not enough, and she _knows_ that Jon agrees.

But Jon also has the strength needed to pin her in place, his fingers more than long enough to wrap entirely around her wrists, his shoulders broad, his body likely twice as heavy as hers - the strength to clasp her wrists against the sides of her body, moving their hands together to pull off every piece of fabric left on her person as he spreads his legs about her hips, serving only to enunciate his hardness further and draw a whine from Sansa's lips. 

His face meets hers again, and she feels that smirking smile of his before his lips finally return to hers, before they are gasping breathlessly for every taste they can possibly get of each other.

He pulls away from their kiss suddenly, and Sansa groans, biting her lip when she realizes, too late, that she'd made no effort to muffle herself; but she feels Jon's grin widen against her skin as he presses a wet kiss at her sternum, rising above her slightly to give himself the necessary leverage to cup her breasts in his large hands and kiss, fondle, and nip at them covetously. 

She gasps unsteadily, and this time when she feels herself about to moan she restrains herself, but his movements all but halt soon afterwards.

"No," Jon asserts firmly, digging his lips into her shoulder to make her gasp again. "Tonight, Sansa, I want to _hear_ you."

She _should_ say no, she should tell him that the risk of being caught is too great, that it would spell ruination for them both, perhaps for their family...but she - _they_ \- shouldn't be here to begin with. She is married, he'd been her brother, he had sworn on his life to take no woman for his wife and he should be taking no woman in the manner a husband took his wife, let alone _her._ She should not have looked at him and lusted after him, nor should he have done the same to her. 

But they had, and now here they were, and for all the elements that should have made the scenario of Jon astride her - of Jon _inside her_ \- disagreeable, taking him before had been the closest Sansa's life had ever come to any of the stories she'd loved so dearly as a girl, and she wants it with all she has, and when he continues with the treatment he'd given her breasts she moans his name more forcefully than she's begged for anything in all her life. 

"Are you quite sure you ate dinner? One might think you've not eaten for a fortnight," she growls, knowing that her teasing will only encourage him. 

"Oh, my lady, I had my fill of dinner. I've simply been saving _you_ for dessert." 

"Truly? I recall you having yourself a piece of pie earlier." 

"Tonight, yes. But not all nights. All nights, though, all nights since I departed Winterfell last, I have _wanted_ for you, Sansa," Jon's voice is low, serious, yet still smooth. 

"As I have wanted for _you,_ " confesses Sansa softly. "Only you." 


End file.
